The city of Paris lay beneath them, a vast labyrinth of streets, alleys, and secrets that echoed with centuries of history. From their vantage point atop the Montmartre district, Frost and Blake surveyed the city. The lights of the French capital twinkled in the distance, casting a soft glow that contrasted with the darkness of their mission.
It had taken them only a day to secure transport to Paris, but the weight of what awaited them there was heavy on both of their minds. The Black Hand had chosen this city as the first step in their global plan, and Frost knew that time was running out.
"Paris," Blake said quietly, his voice barely audible against the wind. "I never thought we'd be facing something like this here. I always pictured us dealing with revolutionaries in the alleys of London, not chasing shadowy organizations across Europe."
Frost remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the sprawling city below. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, a symbol of the very power and grandeur that the Black Hand sought to control. He had never been one for sentimentality, but even he couldn't ignore the significance of the moment. This was no longer just a fight for London; it was a fight for something much larger.
"We'll face whatever we need to face," Frost said finally, his voice steady. "This isn't about borders or nations anymore. This is about stopping Thorne and his men before they tear everything apart."
Blake nodded, but there was a heaviness to his expression. "I just hope we're not too late. They've had a head start, and Paris is a big city. If they're hiding here, it won't be easy to find them."
"We've faced worse odds before," Frost replied, his tone more confident than he felt. "And we've always come out on top. We'll do the same here."
Blake didn't respond, but Frost could see the doubt in his partner's eyes. It was understandable—this was unlike anything they had dealt with before. But Frost couldn't afford to dwell on the enormity of the task ahead. They had to stay focused.
"We need to start by gathering information," Frost said, breaking the silence. "Our contacts in London mentioned a man named Lucien Dubois. He's rumored to be Thorne's right-hand man in Paris. If we can find him, we might be able to trace Thorne's movements."
Blake raised an eyebrow. "And where exactly do we start looking for a man like that? Paris isn't exactly a small town."
Frost smirked, the familiar fire of the hunt rekindling in his chest. "We start where all the powerful men of Paris gather—the Palais Garnier. If Thorne has any influence here, his people will be in the heart of the city's elite."
Blake couldn't help but chuckle. "The Palais Garnier? You're telling me we're going to crash the opera?"
Frost shot him a wry smile. "Wouldn't be the first time, Blake. Get ready. We're going in."
---
The Palais Garnier was a grand spectacle of opulence and beauty. As Frost and Blake entered the grand hall, they were immediately struck by the sheer magnificence of the place. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors and gilded walls. The sound of music filled the air, the soft strains of a string quartet drifting from the main auditorium.
But beneath the elegance and refinement, Frost sensed an undercurrent of tension. The men and women who moved through the hall in their fine clothes and polished shoes were not just here for the opera. This was a gathering of power, a meeting place for those who held sway over the city and, by extension, the world.
Frost scanned the crowd, his eyes flicking from face to face, searching for any sign of Lucien Dubois. He had done his research before arriving in Paris, and he knew what the man looked like—tall, thin, with sharp features and a cold, calculating gaze. Dubois was a master manipulator, a man who operated in the shadows, pulling strings that others didn't even realize existed.
Blake leaned in close, keeping his voice low. "See anything?"
"Not yet," Frost replied, his gaze never wavering. "But he's here. I can feel it."
They moved through the crowd with practiced ease, blending in with the well-dressed men and women who chatted and laughed as though they had not a care in the world. But Frost knew better. He could see the subtle glances, the coded gestures—this was a room full of people who thrived on power, and every word spoken here had weight.
As they made their way toward the back of the hall, Frost's eyes caught sight of a man standing near the entrance to a private box. He fit the description of Lucien Dubois perfectly—tall, thin, with an air of authority that was hard to ignore. Frost nudged Blake and nodded in the man's direction.
"That's him," Frost whispered. "Lucien Dubois."
Blake's eyes narrowed as he studied the man. "Looks like he's guarding something—or someone. You think Thorne is here?"
"It's possible," Frost replied, his mind already working through the possibilities. "But we can't afford to confront him directly. Not here, not now. We need to find out what he's up to first."
Blake glanced around the hall, his gaze lingering on the heavily guarded entrances to the private boxes. "So what's the plan? We can't exactly waltz up to him and ask for an invitation."
Frost's lips curved into a sly smile. "Who says we can't? Follow my lead."
With that, Frost approached the entrance to the private box with the confidence of a man who belonged there. The guard standing at the door eyed him warily, but Frost didn't falter. He flashed a charming smile and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper.
"I believe this is in order," Frost said smoothly, handing the paper to the guard.
The guard frowned as he unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the forged document. After a moment, he gave a curt nod and stepped aside, allowing Frost and Blake to pass through the door and into the private box.
Inside, the atmosphere was even more tense. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and the low murmur of conversation filled the small, dimly lit room. Frost's eyes immediately went to the figure seated in the center of the room—a man with a commanding presence, his face obscured by the shadows.
Lucien Dubois stood at the man's side, his expression unreadable. But Frost could sense the danger in the air. This was no ordinary meeting. They had just walked into the lion's den.
Blake shifted uncomfortably beside him, but Frost remained calm. He couldn't afford to show weakness now.
The man in the shadows spoke, his voice smooth and cultured. "You're not supposed to be here."
Frost met his gaze, his expression neutral. "And yet, here we are."
The man chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Frost's spine. "You have guts, I'll give you that. But I'm afraid you've walked into a situation you can't walk out of."
Lucien Dubois stepped forward, his eyes cold and calculating. "You've been a thorn in our side for too long, Mr. Frost. Did you really think you could come here and stop us?"
Frost's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "I didn't come here to stop you. I came here to end you."
For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the man in the shadows signaled to his guards.
"Kill them."
The room erupted into chaos as the guards lunged at Frost and Blake, guns drawn and ready to fire. But Frost had been prepared for this. He moved quickly, ducking beneath the nearest table and pulling his own weapon from his coat. He fired off a shot, taking down one of the guards before rolling to the side and taking cover behind a heavy chair.
Blake was right beside him, his gun blazing as he fought off the attackers. The small room became a war zone, bullets flying and glass shattering as the two detectives fought for their lives.
But even in the midst of the chaos, Frost's mind remained sharp. He knew they couldn't hold out for long—the odds were against them, and they were outnumbered. They needed to get out, and fast.
"Blake!" Frost shouted over the noise. "We need to move!"
Blake nodded, ducking behind a column as more bullets whizzed past him. "I'm with you!"
Together, they made their way toward the exit, taking down guards as they went. But as they reached the door, Frost's heart sank. Lucien Dubois was already there, blocking their escape with a cold smile on his face.
"You're not going anywhere, Frost," Dubois said, his voice dripping with malice. "This is the end of the line for you."
Frost's mind raced as he searched for a way out. He had come too far, risked too much, to die here in this godforsaken room. There had to be a way—there was always a way.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Frost saw it—a small window near the ceiling, just big enough for them to squeeze through. It was a long shot, but it was their only chance.
"Blake, the window!" Frost shouted, pointing to the small opening.
Blake's eyes widened as he saw it, but he didn't hesitate. Together, they fought their way across the room, dodging bullets and taking down guards as they went. When they reached the window, Frost hoisted Blake up first, then followed, pulling himself through just as another shot rang out.
They landed hard on the rooftop outside, gasping for breath as they scrambled to their feet. Behind them, the sounds of the fight still echoed through the building, but they didn't stop to listen. They ran, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, until they were sure they had lost their pursuers.
Only then did they stop, collapsing against a chimney, their hearts pounding in their chests.
Blake let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Well, that was a close one."
Frost smirked, though there was no humor in his eyes. "It's not over yet. We still have to stop them."
Blake nodded, his expression turning serious. "Yeah. But we'll do it. We have to."
Frost stared out over the city of Paris, his mind already racing with the next steps. The Black Hand was far from defeated, and Thorne was still out there, pulling the strings.
But they had made it this far. And Frost wasn't about to let it end here.
The battle for Paris—and the world—had only just begun.
To be continued…